Icarus
by Fenris's Slytherin Princess
Summary: 'He looks up at Dean, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He flew too close to the sun, he was bound to get burned up."' A bearer of bad news finally brings the truth out of Dean Winchester.


Icarus 

The sun ripples across the calm waters, the orange light reflecting a soft hue across the gravel and grass. Tall, dying trees stay unaffected by the sunrise and the sunset, all happy to go by their own circle of life. The air is thick and sticky, and is dense with the chirps of crickets and birds. It is quiet. There is no sound. A dog walker throws his ball, and his dog goes bounding off through a thicket, chasing. The morning cloaks everything in its dusky shadows, the lines between black and white slowly become grey.  
For an hour, nothing happens. The world goes on and, much to the confusion of the town's people, an old black Impala pulls up by a picnic bench. The pair inside the car stay seated for what feels like an eternity. Their talk started soft, gentle. But the shorter, older one becomes agitated. His hands fly around his face as he talks heatedly to the one with long, chestnut hair. But even after he is done screaming, he stays inside the car.  
The younger brother steps out of the car, his shoulders tense as he stalks a little way down the road to a gas station. He makes little conversation with his breaking voice as he buys two chocolate bars, a crate of beer, some jerky. He does not lift his head for the shop assistant as he leaves. He is not in the mood for politeness.  
The older brother stays still in the car as it rocks. His brother gets in without a word, and passes him a strip of beef jerky. He takes it, silently grateful, and chews his aggression out. Neither say anything for another ten minutes whilst the eating continues. Neither say much when the phone rings.  
"Are you gonna get that?" The younger brother points to the glove box, locked tight and warded. "Dean?" He presses, unsure of his brother's wavering hands.  
Dean, the elder, unlocks the glove box with a small silver key, and pulls out the decade-old flip phone. It had belonged to a relative- a father, an adoptive father, a hunter, maybe- and is cased a fine film of grime. "Hello?" Dean swallows his mouthful after speaking, and nods. "Right. Okay. Well, thanks." He shakes his head as he snaps the phone shut, and thrusts it back into the glove box. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.  
"Nothing?" The younger asks, his mouth flecked with crumbs.  
"No, Sam." Dean says sadly, and takes to glaring at the rising sun. By now, the water is more blue than orange, but still the sun reflects its glow against the lake. "Crowley knows nothing." He adds, feeling the need to expand.  
"And you believe him?" The younger one, Sam, a fan of speaking in questions, tilts his head. His dark hair flops as he moves, and the dark circles under his eyes catch the light. His skin is pale, his eyes sunken. He hasn't slept.  
"I have no reason to doubt him," Dean says finally. His hands make a noise as he takes them off the wheel, and he wipes them on his jeans. "It's just a case of waiting." Sam nods. Dean takes another strip of jerky, and rips a chunk off angrily. His green eyes scan the area outside the car. He is on alert, he is scared.  
"I'm going to take a leak," Sam undoes the door with a loud clunk, and swings his legs out. He takes a shy look back at his brother before skulking off into a small grove.  
Dean waits until he hears no sounds, and then exits the car. He doesn't lock it behind him. He keeps one hand on his gun at all times, and makes his way over to the picnic table. He finished his meat off with a huff, and casts a gaze over the water. The wind begins to pick up, and the waves become more frequent as they lap against a wood walkway where a fisherman might have once fished.  
"Winchester," is the only sound Dean hears. He turns around, his ashen face ready but barely caring. He thinks he recognises that voice, but he couldn't possibly.  
"Gabriel?" He raises an eyebrow, and turns. Yes, he does recognise that voice. He is met with the sight of a plain man; his nose is slightly pointed, and his are eyes the colour of whiskey. He wears a jacket, not dissimilar to Dean's, though his is blood stained.  
"Good to see you remember me," Gabriel's smile tells Dean a lot; he is trying to be positive, but he comes with bad news.  
"We haven't heard from you in years. Where have you been?" Dean turns his body fully, and rests his hands on his knees.  
"I have no time," the man shakes his head. He looks a little disorientated, like he hasn't held a vessel for a long time. That is probably true, Dean thinks belatedly. "Heaven is up in arms, and…"  
"You found him," Dean's eyes drop to his lap as he restrains a shaky sigh. "Not Crowley, but you. You found him." He says again, as if he can't believe it.  
Gabriel hums uncertainly, and then nods. "I found him."  
"Where is he?" Dean's head snaps up with fiery ferocity. He is suddenly desperate.  
Gabriel shakes his head. "Dean, he can't… if he comes back… it'll kill him." His words tumble out slowly, then all at once like a waterfall. He tries to hold them back physically; his hands are clenched at his side.  
"He is not dead," Dean interprets, and lets himself a small smile.  
"But he can't come back, Dean. This war it… it is killing us. He is fighting so hard to keep Heaven stable, but he is weak. If he makes a trip back to Earth…" He shakes his head.  
Dean stands up, taking an Angel Blade from his back pocket. "I will take your Grace if I have to…" He begins, but finds exhaustion and desperation washing over him. "Can you help him?"  
"No," Gabriel says simply. He looks up at Dean, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He flew too close to the sun, he was bound to get burned up." He looked away from Dean, apparently sad too.  
"I won't see him again?" Dean felt the reality hit him. Castiel had been missing for months now, Dean going crazy to find him. He had everyone he could look; he contacted Hunters, Angels, and Demons alike. He _needed _to find Castiel. "I have to see him again! I have to tell him..." He finishes his words and they come to silence in his throat. They burn and scratch at his windpipe, suffocating him.  
"I know," Gabriel steps back, the shadow of this wings falling across the woodchip and gravel ground. "We all know." He breathes in, steadying himself to fly. "I'll tell him, Dean Winchester."  
"Tell him," Dean repeats, dumbfounded. His hands shake as they scrape through his crop of mousy brown hair. His eyes water, and threaten to spill out over his freckled cheeks. His breathing is erratic, his vision blurs as Gabriel lifts up from the ground. "Tell him I love him."

_Hi everyone, this is my first Destiel fic ever! I know it's only short but I wrote it really quick from an idea I've had for a while. Maybe I'll write a sequel (or a 'Meanwhile...' style fic) later on. Please review so I know what you really think- but remember I've never written a SPN or Destiel fic in my entire life, so be nice! Thanks!_


End file.
